


smoke and mirrors

by enkiduu



Series: The Burr Interlude [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Accidental Plot, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Hamilton dies, Laurens lives, M/M, Pining, Rough Sex, Slut Shaming, Welcome folks to the Burr Interlude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 10:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7569928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkiduu/pseuds/enkiduu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton goes out in a blaze of glory. Laurens and Burr have to learn how to live with it. </p><p>(aka if we can bond over alexander hamilton's death, so can they.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	smoke and mirrors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nakimochiku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakimochiku/gifts).



> For the WONDERFUL Nakimochiku, hope you enjoy! There's not as much porn as you'd have liked, I know...see the Accidental Plot tag. Although to be fair there's not much of that either...anyway this was super fun to write, and I may or may not really ship these two now...uhh, oops. just. you'll see. ugh. 
> 
> no one is nice, everything is a mess.

There are some things in this world so intrinsically _wrong_ that when they happen, everything afterwards feels out of sync.

Burr doesn't believe the news at first when he hears it from murmuring strangers on the streets, where it is still hauntingly solemn despite the war being over for a week.

“That can’t be,” Burr says faintly, words choking up in his throat.

Eliza stares at him from the doorstep, eyes deep and dark, black like the gown that spills at her feet. Her lips thin before they pull into something frighteningly kind and knowing, a smile that to Burr is too soft, too polite. It eases none of the pain that’s inexplicably throbbing with every heartbeat.

“Would you like to come in, Mr Burr?” she asks. Her voice is gentle, but her usual harmonious voice sounds out of tune, flat.

Behind her, there is the wail of an infant and someone saying hush, hush.

“No,” Burr says. He turns so quickly that he almost gets whiplash and stumbles a little on the staircase. Eliza watches him go for awhile before shutting the door.

It occurs to him later when he's alone in his room, hanging up his coat, that he forgot to give his condolences. Burr rubs his face, knowing that he'll have to pen a letter sometime soon.

There is this, and this is more than enough to derail Burr. Hamilton had come into his life, knocking him sideways mercilessly and, with such brilliance and intensity, offered to walk beside him.

But no, it was never much a choice. Hamilton isn’t one to ask for permission—no one lets him do anything, he just does.

Burr needs a distraction, now that the war is over. He doesn't know what to do. Law seems like a good option, has always been a respectable position.

When he lies on his bed that night, staring at the ceiling, he thinks of how Hamilton’s gone to the wrong Other Side. Or maybe this is exactly what he’d intended? Burr doesn’t know. Alexander always did have a recklessness about him, willing to fight for everything, die for anything, as long as it will get his name down in history.

Burr spitefully throws a pillow to the wall and it slumps pathetically on the ground. He’s in dire need of a distraction to keep him from thinking about Alexander. It’s almost funny, the irony. Alexander had always been the distraction, yet now that he’s not here anymore, Burr finds himself missing him from the inside out.

A few days later, Burr gets a knock on the door in the afternoon.

“Burr,” Laurens says with a smile that doesn’t meet his fierce hazel eyes. Burr notes a trace of aggression in them that wasn’t previously there, last they met. Black circles stand as evidence of insomnia and mourning, but he looks every bit ready for a challenge, standing tall and staring straight at Burr unfalteringly.

Burr blinks and, more tired and surprised than wary of a dispute, says, “Laurens. What are you doing here?” There's no reason for him to visit Burr. They were never on particularly friendly terms—and now that the reason for them to interact is gone, Burr doesn’t see why Laurens is here.

“Aw, come on, Burr. Do I need a reason to visit an old friend?” Laurens shrugs with the arrogance of someone who has never been rejected before, and pushes past Burr’s shoulder into his house. He wanders uninvited into the living room where paintings of Burr’s family hang on the wall.

“I am busy,” Burr says, gritting his teeth. His smile holds no fondness for this man, nor whatever pretence he’s acting under.

“With what?” Laurens asks, picks up a candle and raises it, pointing at Burr in a familiar motion. “Mourning?”

Burr twitches, smile plummeting into a scowl. “Put that down,” he says, louder than he intended. “I’ll kindly ask you to leave—”

Laurens cocks his head. “So you are affected by Alexander’s death, after all,” he says, putting down the candle back on the table. “Not as heartless as you pretend. Sir,” he adds, and Burr hates the knowing glint in his eyes.

“Don’t.” Don't tell him how to act, don't say _sir_.

Whoever said Laurens was so like Hamilton must not have seem them separate before, and how awful, that, Burr had wished them separate before. Not like this. Laurens isn't Hamilton, no matter how similar people say they are in their beliefs and mannerisms.

Laurens laughs humorlessly. “I’d thought so,” he muses, maybe with a touch of triumph, maybe relief, maybe anger. Burr doesn’t know him well enough to describe it, and Laurens doesn’t know Burr at all, he has no right to speak like this. “Did they tell you?” he asks.

“What?”

“No? Huh. I see,” Laurens says. “A letter about his death. What else? Eliza was surprised by how late you visited, and then left without another word… I had imagined, perhaps you simply didn't care.”

Burr walks forward, still has no idea why Laurens is here. He doesn't care, not at all. There is nothing to say, and anger is brimming. Of course he didn't get a letter. Who would've thought of Aaron Burr? Who even knew of him? Only John Laurens, who is the only man people will think of when they say Alexander Hamilton.

“Leave. Now,” he snaps, and finds that he’s breathing erratically. Laurens is remind him of smoke from the battlefield that tastes of despair, dark and overwhelming and pervasive. He's standing close to him, fingers curling around Laurens’ arm with fury.

Laurens doesn’t so much as flinch. “Why?” he asks.

“We were never friends,” Burr tells him icily.

“No, we weren’t,” Laurens agrees, tilts his head, smirks languidly, but his eyes are dark. Light catches on his freckles. “But hey, I was never really friends with my Alexander either.” He curls Alexander’s name on his tongue and Burr shivers at the implications.

Whoever said Laurens was a kind man did not know him, Burr thinks, and for a moment, wonders what Hamilton would say about this.

“What are you saying,” Burr says.

“Oh, don’t act so dense.” Laurens rolls his eyes. “You think I haven’t seen the way you look at him so longingly? Such shameful desire is very distinctive, when you know where to look.” He shrugs. “He never looked at you that way, though.”

“Don’t presume,” Burr retorts, thinks of a pair of bright, glittering eyes, flashing in the night, and regret refracts in him, twisting terribly. He looks at a pair of dark, smokey eyes, and says, viciously, “He’s never going to look at you like that again.”

Laurens’ eyes widen, jaw clicking shut. He grips at Burr’s arm back, and with his free hand, he digs his fingers into Burr’s hip. “You never got to have him,” he hisses—Burr thinks he sees his eyes gleam wetly, or maybe that’s just mirroring his own tears—“You'll never know what he looks like on his knees. You must have dreamt of him, but you’ll never know his mouth—God, his sinful mouth, how he moans and begs. He never stops talking during sex, either, he tells me what he wants—”

“Shut, up,” Burr groans, frustrated, and surges forward, lips crashing against Laurens’. It’s not a real kiss, there’s nothing reassuring about this, no passion other than hatred and pain and despair, yes, Laurens tastes of such delicious, terrible _despair_. There’s nothing sweet in this, but it's an intense distraction at the cost of pride, sanity, and a few buttons on their suits.

Laurens grinds against him through their breeches. Burr gasps, feels himself half-hard already. Laurens bites down on his lip and Burr tastes blood where it stings when they part for air.

Burr sneers, to which Laurens just lets out a breathless laugh. “You came for this,” he accuses, shakes his head, incredulous at how shameless and desperate Laurens is, but he believes it and he can't turn him down.

“So will you,” Laurens tells him as he goes down on his knees. He strokes Burr’s cock a few times, squeezing, before he takes him into his mouth, hot and merciless.

Burr shuts his eyes in painful pleasure. He puts his hand on Laurens’ shoulders and imagines Alexander, which is so easy. He pushes in further. “You don't even gag,” he groans, awed, shaking, and a low whimper escapes Laurens, who only swallows harder. Burr fucks his throat raw, but Laurens only sucks more eagerly like a man with nothing left to lose, he's already lost it all, and Burr never had anything to begin with. “You slut, you love being on your knees, don’t you? Is that why you're here, you wanted me to fight you? How many times have you done this?”

Laurens replies by digging his nails in Burr’s thighs, drawing them down. It stings. Burr shudders, thinks of a fire that burned, so brightly and with such brilliance that cannot be paralleled, and damn did Burr try. Nothing could ever compare, not this right now, not anything ever. God it's fucking unfair, it's so wrong. Burr squeezes his eyes shut, comes apart into Laurens, who doesn't let him pull out and Burr doesn't want to.

When he opens his eyes, falls backwards into the couch, he sees Laurens standing and licking his lips clean, still throbbing hard beneath his breeches, but he doesn't make a move for release.

Burr frowns. “Come here,” he says, reaching out.

“What's this?” Laurens asks, and his voice is so hoarse it stirs arousal in Burr again. He swats Burr’s hands away. “Reciprocation? Funny that you of all people should offer. If you want to suck my cock, just say it, Burr.” There's something called sadness, a plead that shimmers for a moment in his eyes, catching in the darkness. The fire is gone and all that's left is Laurens with his voice broken like ashes and a gaze that tears through Burr with such vulnerable loathing.

Burr flushes, then narrows his eyes.

“If I wanted kindness or pity, I would not have come to you,” Laurens tells him.

“Of course,” Burr says, standing as well. “You just want to be blamed and punished for living."

Laurens stiffens. “What?"

“What?” Burr’s lips curl up and shakes his head. “Don't act so dense, Laurens," he echoes. "You wish you'd died instead of—" He breaks off.

Laurens doesn't laugh with scorn, but he doesn't deny it either, staring at Burr with an odd gaze, as if he's seeing Burr for the first time. "You can't even say Alexander's name," he says. "Good day, _sir_ ," he bites back scathingly, and leaves. 

Burr grimaces, licks his bleeding lip. Wishes Laurens had died instead. 

*******

It's not the first time he comes to Burr. It happens another time (Laurens doesn't push him away when Burr goes to blow him), then another (Laurens brings salve), and another ( _Burr_ starts bringing salve), and the pattern has been established (in his house, against the wall, in his office, in a dark alleyway while fireworks go off in the background). They don't talk much, but when they do, it's always about Alexander, always Laurens who brings him up, with growing frustration and heartbreak leaking into his voice, increasingly rough sex that leaves bruises on their skin, at their hips and knees and necks, nail marks in their backs. 

"Stop," Burr doesn't say, and with each time they meet, he sees a little less of Alexander's fire in Laurens, and then he sees a little more of John in Laurens, and he thinks he really should say no. But there's no love in any of their fucking, it's only physical, a sort of comfort, a sort of  _distraction_. Nothing more, so Burr doesn't have anything to lose, has nothing to begin with. But some sort of worry still grips him, inexplicably. 

There's no reason. There's no reason for any of this, because Alexander's flames already burned out. Burr has no Hamilton to reflect, no goal to surpass. And Laurens will never be Hamilton, no matter how hard he tries to make an impact, to join politics. He's not suited to it. Maybe he's as loud and expressive as Hamilton in public, but not truly, and he doesn't have the skill to back anything up, only heart. 

Burr works, too. He's on his first murder case when Laurens comes knocking again, starts with a fucking punch in the face.

"Shit," Burr says, the pain burning, "Laurens, what the fuck." 

"Good luck explaining that to the jury," Laurens laughs, and it's the first time he laughs like this, smirk meeting his eyes in the form of mischief, delight. It dissipates, fleeting like wisps of smoke, but Burr catches it, if just for a moment. Something shifts in Burr's focus, and it still feels wrong, but then Laurens is devouring his mouth, swallowing any questions.  

“Ha,” Laurens breathes when he sees an unopened envelope, framed by black ink, on Burr’s desk, gasping as Burr thrusts into him, pinning him down. “There is _this_ letter, at least."

Burr pauses for a moment before he slaps Laurens' ass. Laurens doesn't flinch, just throws his head back and lets out a long, drawn-out moan. 

"You should come," Laurens continues, as if everything is perfectly normal, but his breath has hitched. "Alexander would want you there. Celebrating him, going out in a blaze of _glory_." 

Burr hisses at the last word, hates how Hamilton thought dying as a martyr was an option. He hates how well that option turned out to be for his legacy.  

He considers going, but he doesn't. 

Some time later, Laurens comes knocking at night, and he reeks of whiskey. "Ah," he says. "You missed the celebration! Raise a glass... to  _freedom_..." he sings.

"You're drunk," Burr says faintly. 

"No, I'm not," Laurens says, eyes sharp and swimming with distaste as he sends Burr a glare, nearly knocks him over with the intensity he grabs Burr's lapels and drags him close for a kiss. Burr makes a sound of alarm and quickly pulls him in, closing the door. It's dark outside, but caution should still be on their mind.  

After they fuck, Laurens doesn't leave immediately for once. He has a moment of weariness, and Burr wonders if this is how he has been the whole day: sad, fresh with loss. Although, he supposes that's how Laurens' lived everyday since it happened. It sets Burr on edge, but it's the only thing in his life right now that feels like it makes sense.

God forgive him, but that makes no sense at all.

“They will immortalize him,” Laurens murmurs, sounding distracted as he puts on his clothes. "He helped bring the war to an end. A real hero." He sounds confused, as if Hamilton's late for something the first time in his life. Which is completely opposite to the truth. Pain pulls at Burr's heartstrings. "More people showed up today than they did on his wedding, but no one truly knew him."

Burr's even more glad that he didn't go, then. But. "You don't need to bring him up every time," he says. 

It's obviously not what Laurens wants to hear because he sneers at him, and for the first time, he withdraws his emotions, cold. "No? They will forget who Alexander is. Do you want to, too?"

Laurens doesn't come to him again. 

*******

Burr thinks about Hamilton, thinks about Laurens, who's increasingly invading his mind. Neither of them are something that can be forgotten. He can't forget his touch, it's imprinted in his mind, like the aftermath of a wildfire. The taste of ashes in his mouth won't go away, bitter and blistering, and it's really, all Hamilton's fault. 

Hamilton isn't alive to ask for forgiveness—no one can stop him from doing anything, he just dies and dies and dies, leaves the world darker, colder, quieter. 

Seven months later, Burr catches a glimpse of Eliza and Angelica (how much a person must love another, to be willing to give it all up for them, to be willing to _stay_ ) and a little boy with brilliant eyes and a bright smile, walking down the street.

Burr cries. 

*******

When Laurens comes again, one week from a year since they first started this, since the Sun stopped rising, he is just as uninvited as the first time, and Burr thinks _yes_. But Laurens has marks on him that are too fresh for Burr to have left them, and Burr sees red. Then why does he feel a touch of relief? So he channels the anger, it is easier.

"You'll really whore yourself to anyone?" Burr demands, feeling oddly betrayed. 

"As if you've kept to yourself," Laurens scoffs. "I shouldn't have come back."

"No," Burr agrees, "you shouldn't have." He pulls Laurens into a kiss and Laurens opens his mouth earnestly. It's familiar. Laurens tastes of desperation and want, and it makes Burr afraid because he thinks, how  _beautiful_. 

It's been nearly a year since this started. Burr pulls his cock out of Laurens slowly. Laurens falls back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, pensive, eyes glazed.

"Why?" Burr asks. He considers clarifying, but Laurens seems to understand. Neither of them is dense. They both know what they know.

"Because," Laurens drawls softly, "we can't forget him." 

"And we won't." Burr frowns. "We can't, anyway. You don't have to ruin yourself," Burr says, sitting up, looking down at Laurens. "Focus on your job at Congress. Make a name for yourself. Rise up."

Laurens' eyes flicker to him. He narrows them and prepares to leave. "I promised him..."

"So did I." 

"It's not the same," Laurens mutters, winces slightly as he bends to reach for his boots.

"Wait. Laurens."

Laurens scowls at him, but his eyes are wide and clear for once, focused on Burr and only him. 

"I'm going to run for Senate," he tells him, hesitates. Bites his tongue, swallows.  

"Great," Laurens says flatly, scoffs. "Good luck, Burr." He stands.

"Wait," Burr says, louder than he intended. He curls his fingers around Laurens' arm with trepidation. "I won't forget you if you stop mentioning Alexander," Burr whispers. "Alexander's dead. So just... just stay."

Laurens stops breathing, looks stricken with guilt. It's quickly replaced by a frightened glare. Burr doesn't think he can blame Hamilton for dying. It seems inconsequential in the face of Laurens’ wreck, of his own wreck. "You... I had no idea," Laurens says, expression flickering with an odd, soft hesitation. Raw. Truthful. "No idea whether you two had been together. No idea if you loved him the way I did."

Burr thinks about this confession slowly, then leans forward to Laurens, who takes a step forward. They kiss lightly and tumble into an embrace.

He exhales into Laurens' hair. He doesn't ask why Laurens came to him, doesn't tell him why he didn't push him away, they've both known from the start. 

This is what they had from the start, but there's never been a proper beginning, he thinks. 

"Stay, John," he repeats, eyes wet, says for the first time, and something in Laurens cracks. 

"Aaron," John says shakily as he buries his head into the crook of Burr's neck, and well.

Maybe it'll get better. Maybe Alexander's song has burned out, into a fiery tune that Burr and Laurens can never follow again, can never match, but...

Aaron hums softly a lullaby into John's ears, and John joins in quietly. It may be quiet, but they will still sing. 

There is them, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> hey, look! I resisted the urge to break your hearts completely by having them go all Idiots à la Not Actually Unrequited Love. right? You can thank Nakimochiku for that, who requested some semblance of happiness... (you ask so much of me! <3) 
> 
> Anyway PLEASE COME SHIP THIS SHIP WITH ME @en-ki-duu on tumblr this pairing is so lonely. These two are basically already drowning, but they can swim together. idk. it can work. i know it can. PLEASE. i'm ready.


End file.
